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He practically drags himself through the window, his right hip catching against the windowsill, he grunts behind his mask. With all the gracefulness of a 6’4’’, he slams against the hardwood floor. He lays there for a minute, waits to gain control of his breath again.
Slade is used to the hurting, hurting for a long time that he forgot how it was. He doesn’t heal as fast as he used to thanks to the poison the big bad bat used against him.
He pushes on his arms tries to stand straight and find a wall to sit against. There is going to be blood everywhere, enough stains to make someone he knows really angry. Slade chuckles but it quickly turns into a pained grown. His mask feels suddenly way too much against his skin, he rips and throws it somewhere he can’t see.
He sees him coming out of the bedroom, long shirt, short shorts —Slade’s favorite— he looks pale and panicked. Jason kneels in front of him brows furrowed. Slade tries to smile but he doesn’t have the strength, not anymore, now after a night like this. Not after the Bat spent his night taking his anger out on Slade.
“You look like death,” Jason says, “I would know.”
He thinks he is funny, Slade doesn’t share the sentiment, he ignores the young man. There is a pause, a long silence stretching on the border of too long. Slade grabs the table next to him and stands up. Jason is behind him, watching carefully his every movement.
“Someone should take a look at you. Like a professional, you don’t look good.”
“I can pull my own weight,” Slade grumbles. “I can do it alone.”
He managed before, he can do it again. He can lick his wounds on his own, he doesn’t need someone to pamper him, he’s gotten soft hanging out with Jason.
“You’re too proud,” Jason sighs.
Slade grunts, he stumbles into the bathroom, sit on the toilets. Slade needs to catch his breath, he feels weak and the dark spots slowly taking over his sight are getting bigger. He lets his head rest against the wall behind him. He shouldn’t have come back. He wanted to see Jason, owed it to him but right now the price was high. Should have known papa bat wouldn’t appreciate the visit to his second son.
With his left leg, Slade drags the medkit from under the sink. Jason has always been organized, drilled into him maybe. Slade loved to mess around with his stuff, always happy to see the angry look on the younger man’s face He opens the kit, one side falls on the ground, a band rolls out of it, and stops at the door.
Jason is watching his arms crossed, one eyebrow rising, he looks like Alfred when the old man is displeased. It’s been a long time since Slade saw the old butler, Jason’s always the one to plan the meetings, there hasn’t been one in a few weeks now.
“Let me help you.”
“You wouldn’t be any help,” Slade growls. Jason puts his hands up.
“I had to try, at least call someone, like Arthur or something.”
Slade unclips his body armor, the black kevlar falls to the ground in a heavy sound, he peels his shirt slowly off his skin, the blood already started to dry and the fabric is sticking painfully to his skin. Jason sits on the ground in front of him.
“I’m fine.”
Jason doesn’t look impressed, his arms are crossed over his chest. Slade chuckles, he opens the bottle of alcohol and pours it over the large cut on his side, and muffles a grunt of pain, press gaze against it. Jason sucks his teeth in.
“You should take a break. It’s fine, you shouldn’t work yourself to death like that. I don’t understand why you keep going against him all the time. It’s like you want him to beat the shit out of you,” Slade lets his head rest against the wall behind him.
“Maybe I deserve it.”
“You’re no martyr, Slade.”
“I’m not, we are helping each other out. Wayne taking his frustration on someone without worrying about killing them.”
“And you’re getting beaten up, almost dying because of what? Because you feel guilty about some bullshit thing.”
Slade sighs. He closes his eyes, maybe Jason will take the hint and leave him alone. Just this one time. He doesn’t need that nagging. He waits, feels the skin slowly pickling under the gaze, finally. He is healing, he is always healing. Pain gets slowly more and more bearable.
A shower is the least of his care right now but Jason hates when Slade sleeps dirty in his clean sheet. He tried it once, had to sleep on the ground ‘don’t even think about touching my sofa with your dirty paws’.
The hot water against his back is heavenly. He watches as the blood turns red, pink, and then back to transparent. He hopes Wayne is feeling like shit too, least he deserves.
Jason is waiting in the bedroom. Observing Slade getting in bed. Slade knows he shouldn’t, knows it’s a bad idea. It’s going to end like all the time he had this argument.
“It’s not bullshit.”
“Hmm?” Jasons walks up to the bed.
“I’m not guilty about some bullshit. It’s important.”
“It’s done,” he slithers in.
“It’s my fault. I should have said no… should have done something,” Slade can practically feel his arms around him.
“I took the mission, Slade. It’s done, you couldn’t have done anything to stop me.”
“I could have come, helped,” he is getting angry, it’s always the same. Rinse and repeat.
“It’s done, I’m fine.”
“You’re dead!” He screams. “You died alone, no one with you, again.”
Jason disappears, always, every time Slade says it, every time he makes himself realize. Because he can’t take anything good, can’t enjoy seeing one more time. That’s why he shows himself on purpose on the city’s surveillance. Goes straight where Wayne forbade him to go. Forbade him to visit. He deserves this. Deserves their anger.
Now his nights are haunted by Jason slowly losing his blood, knowing he’ll die. Knowing no one is coming for him. The realization that he is utterly alone in his last moments.